


50 Prompts

by Naysa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, One Shot Collection, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:06:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa/pseuds/Naysa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stand-alones Jon/Arya drabbles and one-shots (without any sequel or continuation) written for prompts. Rating may vary from story to story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > I'd like to read a fight between Jon and Arya about them being wrong together because they grew up as brother and sister, where Arya tries to convince him It's not right to be together but Jon for once doesnt care about doing the right thing because he loves her too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [anon](http://bringhersafetome.tumblr.com/post/128551898098/yaaaaay-id-like-to-read-a-fight-between-jon-and).

“Wrong?” the word leaves his lips harshly and Arya braces herself, her back resting against the wall. Jon’s looking at her incredulous, she’s refusing to look at him. “We are  _wrong_?”

“We were once brothers,” her voice is a growl, a demand to be heard. She’s furious, he can see, but he’s not sure why. He has the feeling she’s furious with their situation and not with him at all.

Jon shakes his head. “You cannot be serious.”

Her eyes raise this time, the rage making them glint like melted steel. “What makes us different than the Lannisters?”

He huffs, or maybe is more of a laugh. He’s not sure, he’s just shocked and amused and enraged at the same time. “We are  _not_ brother and sister!”

“We were once! We grew up as brother and sister.”

His jaw clenches, his muscles tense. He pronounces the next words carefully, struggling to get them out as words and not as barking. “But we are not.”

“No, you are right. I’m a Stark, you are a Targaryen. Maybe that’s what pushed you to love me in the first place. The fact that I was your sister what truly woke your desire,” she’s sneering at him, her voice cruel and cold, and Jon just cannot believe her nerve.

 _How dare you question my love for you_ , he wants to scream at her, but this time the rage is so big he can’t speak. Her hands are trembling and he knows that statement just came out of her insecurity, her fear; because it doesn’t matter how strong she is, how deadly and self-sufficient she is, Arya stills battles her demons and her insecurities with all the fierceness she can muster.

It’s that thought what turns his burning rage to a residing warmth and he’s moving before he realizes what he’s doing. In two large steps his chest is against hers and Arya inhales suddenly, surprised, the sound of her breath resounding like the swing of a blade against fresh air. His mouth is on her and she’s kissing him back with desperation. It doesn’t  _feel_  wrong at all. Her hands grab the fabric of his shirt with strength and he’s kissing her with wild abandon, lips and teeth and tongue making him shiver in pleasure. She bites, and scratches and—even though she’s not pushing him away at all, even though she’s actually pulling him closer, even though she’s kissing him just as eager as he is—it still feels like she’s fighting him.

He breaks the kiss to breathe and her fingers twitch in his shirt, like she’s afraid to let go. Their breath is ragged and their hearts are beating wild, one against the other. Like it should always be.

When he finds the hold of his control again, he speaks.

“You are in my veins and I can’t get you out. Don’t ask me to get you out,” she shivers with his words and Jon brushes his lips against hers. Arya immediately opens her mouth, a breath rushing to her lungs. “Not now.”

“We were once brothers,” she insists but this time is oh, so weak. He loves her stubborn heart, even when she’s trying to deny him.

“Brothers, lovers, who cares what we were, what we are? We are, Arya, that’s it.” Her hands tighten even more on his shirt and he knows she’s using so much strength they must be hurting right know . He doesn’t move and waits for her to realize that there’s no way of ending them and there was no way of avoiding what has happened.  _Brothers or lovers, with us what’s the difference?_

Her fingers relax until they let go and her right hand finds his, their fingers intertwining right next to her head, her knuckles resting against the wall. Jon softly parts her legs with his knee and her right leg bends to rest against his hip. Her flesh is so warm, the thin shift sliding up her thigh, he desperately wants to dig his fingers in her skin to feel the pulse of her heartbeat in his fingertips.

“You were once so keen to do the right thing.”

“I still am, don’t you see? For me loving you is the only right thing I can do.” Arya releases a sound that’s partly a sight, partly a moan; and he can see the last thread of her resolve shredding in the light of her eyes. Jon smiles. “You were once so keen to follow your heart.”

She laughs and he knows the fight is over; he knows her doubts are gone though he doesn’t understands where they came from in the first place. He always thought that, if either of them would feel guilty about their current relationship, it would be him. It would be his desire to be honorable like his uncle Ned what would push him to try and end this. Maybe it was that thought what made him realize so quickly that they were unavoidable, unstoppable.  _Brothers or lovers, with us what’s the difference?_

“I still am, don’t you see?” she whispers faintly and her lips brush his with her words. She smiles. “My heart has always been a challenge.”

He drowns his laugh in her mouth, kissing her with burning passion.  _Such an exquisite challenge._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > jonrya prompt: runaway au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Anon](http://bringhersafetome.tumblr.com/post/130230944328/jonrya-prompt-runaway-au)

It starts raining when the service is over, when the coffin has just joined the darkness. Arya has dark glasses over her eyes and no tear slips through her cheeks. She has cried them all in the comfort of his arms with night as her only witness, she won’t cry now in front of all these people.

Jon stands apart, watching everything from afar. He buried his mother and shortly after his father. He couldn’t stand the thought of burying his uncle too but the thought of leaving Arya completely alone on this day was even more painful. So, there he is, away but close still.

She turns to look at him from time to time. She breathes, deep, and then turns away again to hold as long as she can.

But now is over and she walks over to where he is, her chin held high but the vulnerability still present in the arms crossed over her chest, like she’s holding herself upright, like she’s keeping herself together.

Their relationship has always been a secret. Ned knew, of course, but to everyone else it was just friendship, just comradery; closer to siblings than lovers. If Robb knew he would probably have a heart attack and Catelyn would never approve, the mistakes of Jon’s parents carrying on his shoulders even when they’re dead. So secrecy has always been their friend, their ally; they rely on it heavily, like a safety blanket that’s supposed to keep judgement away, keeps things simple.

But now their pain it’s too great and suddenly they just don’t care. As soon as Arya gets to his side, his hand cups her face and he takes off her glasses. There are tears on her eyes, but they don’t slip, and her stare shines with misery and pain, pain, pain. He can’t help himself, he can’t stop himself, and he kisses her full on the mouth; desperate to feel her breathing, desperate to feel her heart.

He knows there’s people looking at them, he can feel their eyes on them, but secrecy now feels like a cage, like it’s drowning them instead of helping them, and he runs from it, he despises it. He needs to take her pain away, he needs to feel her alive in his arms, he needs to know he won’t lose her too and suddenly hiding doesn’t have a meaning anymore.

His heart rejoices when she kisses him back. Because it’s Arya and she is kissing him with that fierceness that’s hers and hers only. That wildness that has labelled her as the she-wolf of the Stark family. That passion that has made him addicted to her taste. That recklessness that proves she’ll always follow her heart. That strength that shows him she’ll survive this and he breathes, from the first time since they told him Uncle Ned it’s dead, he breathes.

When they part, there’s no doubt in his heart and no space between their bodies. They are holding each other as close as they can and it’s like part their pain has evaporated, gone. It’s just them and the falling rain, their beating hearts and their fluttering breaths. She sighs, he breathes the air that leaves her lungs and there’s nothing between them.

Suddenly he feels the urge to be like that forever. To be just them, far and far away, to have the reassurance they won’t be parted and to have the reassurance of her love, of her presence, of her voice. He wants to leave and never look back.

Eventually, they join the rest of the family and they ignore their weird stares and Catelyn’s pressed lips. They ignore the hushed voices and the constant clicking of the reporters cameras. They walk, hand in hand, fingers pressing tightly, seeking strength, seeking endurance.

Jon waits for the need to tug Arya’s hand and take her away—far, far away—to leave his heart, his mind. He waits for the urge to leave everything behind to fade away and to disappear with the same haste the idea showed up in his mind.

It never does.

* * *

Arya calls in the middle of the night. It’s the first night since Ned’s death that they are spending apart and he hasn’t been able to sleep at all, not even for a second.

Her voice is urgent and he feels like she’s pulling him towards her. She’s just saying she can’t sleep, she’s just talking about random things, yet there’s a message hiding in her tone and his heart understands it, his heart wants to answer.

So he never stops talking to her and gets dressed, gets in his car, and drives as reasonably fast as possible to the Stark Manor, to Winterfell. Going there is painful, that’s uncle Ned’s house and it’ll always be uncle Ned’s house, but it’s also Arya’s house and sleeping there, with all those reminders of her father, must be like a constant stab to the heart.

As soon as he’s there, he tells her. He stops the car, leans back on his seat and interrupts her monotonous ranting about the flowers people has send them to tell her he’s outside. She’s quiet for a few seconds, seconds made of the silence of pain and that breathless moment when your breath gets caught in your lungs, in the middle of your throat, after hours of crying.

She sobs, short and unexpected, gone as soon as it happened. “Thank Gods.”

The call is cut and Jon gets out of the car. He walks over to the front door, by now the sun is rising behind the clouds, and doesn’t even reaches for it before it’s already open.

Arya it’s standing there and she has the blue of winter roses in her hair and the grey of silver jewelry in her eyes. The new color contrasts beautifully against her pale skin and her red, red lips are tantalizing, shining with blood. She has bitten them so much the skin is swollen and tender. Inviting, suggestive; suddenly Jon is dying to kiss her.

The hair is shorter, barely reaching her chin, and looks wild, and messy, and so much like her spirit he can’t help but love it.

Arya opens her mouth, like she’s about to say something—probably explain her sudden change of image—but Jon smiles, the smile he has only for her, and she sighs. She gulps and tilts her head. The request that leaves her lips is one he has heard in his darkest dreams, always in her voice, always with the image of those eyes in front of him, always at the back of his mind, ever since the funeral at least.

“Take me away.”

* * *

They leave the same morning, before everyone wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was wildly unspecific so I wrote about the reasons why they decide to run away. Hope you enjoy! And, please, don't forget to tell me your opinion on a review/comment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Jon sees Arya as a faceless men and his stare alone makes her come back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [anon](http://bringhersafetome.tumblr.com/post/132234613138/jon-sees-arya-as-a-faceless-men-and-his-stare)

It’s the strangest council Jon has ever been part of but, then again, he’s not familiar with Braavosi customs, much less those customs of the House of Black and White.

It’s the first council in hundreds of years that the Iron Bank of Braavos and the House of Black and White are holding together. The last time, apparently, was to discuss the details of the fall of the one—if not  _the_ —greatest civilization of all times. A group of people, much like the one sitting in front of him, that brought down an entire culture like they were a mere fly on the wall bothering their sight. With just a council meeting and a few exchanged words, they decided the fate of thousands.

He’s not sure whether he’s horrified or impressed. These people hold so much power, so much influence. He wants to laugh at the memory of who he thought had power back in the day. Back to his childhood in Winterfell, when he thought the King had power, when he thought Tywin Lannister had power, when he thought the Seven Kingdoms were a powerful land.

They are not even a fly on the wall. If anything, they are a spot on the impeccable landscape these people like to stare at and he prays that the council in front of him has no obsession with cleanliness and decides to wipe them off.

Daenerys moves by his side, changing her position, and he can feel how uncomfortable she feels. She’s used to being the powerful one in the room; her dragons, her past and her blood holding her as high as a legend. Now she sits with as much power as a commoner. In this land, in this place, they have nothing and the dragons are hated with a feverish passion that has all odds against them.

Aegon puts his hand over his mouth as he supports his head on his arm. His eyes are scanning the room at a fast pace, scared and in awe, like he cannot see the room completely even as he tries. Jon understands the feeling completely. The room is not impressive per se, the architecture beautiful but not breathtaking. It’s the aura, the energy in the room what truly inspires the fear.  

The Iron Bank members are staring at them, their faces betraying nothing. The members of the House of Black and White, instead, are wearing hoods that hide their faces. Some wear white, some wear black, and only two wear both colors. They’re still as statues, so in control they don’t seem human anymore. Daenerys requested their hoods removed, the Iron Bank answered that it was useless: with or without hoods on, the true faces of the members would remain a mystery to them anyway. They are called faceless for a reason.

The silence stretches and Jon sees Daenerys raise her chin. “I’m afraid I would feel more comfortable with the hoods gone either way.”

“As you wish, Daenerys Stormborn.” All of the faceless men answer at the same time, the different type of voices overlapping in perfect unison. They move in perfect synchronization and Jon wasn’t expecting it to be so terrifying but suddenly his breath it’s caught in his throat, his heart in overdrive and the cold tongue of fear is licking his skin.

One by one, he stares at the faces now revealed. Women and men, young and old, fair and dark skin, it’s a diverse group but all of them owners of incredible beauty.

 _Owners truly?_  his own mind questions. Beauty has been known to represent power in the past, it’s most likely to be intentional that they represent the most diverse of beauties with the influence of many cultures on them. But somehow he knows those are not their true faces and he knows they show masks because their true selves had been lost for a long time.

With a gulp, he tries to relax and Daenerys clears her throat.

“We are here—”

“We know why you are here, Khaleesi.” The faceless answer once more in unison and Jon exchanges a look with Aegon before staring ahead again. His eyes land on a petite girl with a face full of freckles and he blinks, rapidly, confusedly, feeling like he knows her.

She has light brown hair, like chocolate with a lot of milk, and sweet golden eyes, like those of a lion cub. Her face is incredibly innocent but her expression is completely blank. There’s a light, deep in those sweet eyes, that speaks of cunning and quick wit. When she notices him looking, she tilts her head like a bird. Then, she smiles. Quick and brief and wild, the smiles flashes in his mind to then stay in his memory even though her face is already back to its nothingness.

He frowns and he is overwhelmed by a series of feelings he is not expecting. A longing stabs his heart and he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know.  _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

One of the members of the Iron Bank starts talking and Jon shakes his head to clear the little girl’s smile off his mind. A fake face and a brief smile won’t distract him from the task at hand.

* * *

He looks different. Yet the same.

Oh, her heart could burst through her chest and she knows, she knows, she’ll get scolded for this. She’s an official member of the faceless men, she’s no one. She doesn’t know Jon Snow and she doesn’t get excited because he’s in front of her with the same eyes and that adorable confused expression and that coldness sculpted in the sharp features of his face.

She shouldn’t look at him just to smile and she shouldn’t enjoy his concentration drifting to her every minute.

She’s not Arya Stark, whose face probably has those sharp features too. She’s not one of the daughters of Winterfell, she is not a northern she-wolf, she’s not Ned’s little girl with his grey eyes. She’s no one. Faceless, with no identity.

But, oh, her heart could burst through her chest either way.

The meeting moves forward and she listens, intently. Just because of the orders from the House of Black and White, not because she misses Winterfell and she’s desperate to know more about the North and the changes that has happened since Arya Stark sailed away.

She listens and speaks at the right time and nods at the right time and stares down at the foreign rulers of a foreign land like she has no business with them.

She’s not Arya Stark. She’s no one.

But every time Jon looks her way she can feel Arya Stark clawing her way back. And, even though that fact alone is terrible itself, it’s even worse what she, as no one, is actively doing:

She’s allowing Arya to take over again. And she wants her to.

And it amazes her that Jon, with just his eyes, can bring her back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Just cute cotidian romantic moment in Winterfell or Kings Landing (depends on if you think Jon will sit in the Iron Throne at the end ;P) between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluffiest thing I have ever written.

It’s the sun what wakes her up. Shiny and insistent, warming up her face, she groans as she comes into consciousness. Arya refuses to open her eyes and instead starts moving around, trying to avoid the sun on her face and trying to keep on sleeping.

Her hands find Jon sleeping right next to her and he groans and mumbles incoherent things, too asleep to make sense but to awake to stay silent. She cuddles closer to him and hides her face in his neck, chest to chest, sighing happily once the sun is not bothering her anymore.

She could fall asleep again, she is falling asleep again, but then Jon hugs her tightly and bites her earlobe playfully and she knows he won’t go back to sleep now.

“You woke me up,” he says lightly though it sounds more like a complain. Arya is torn between answering him and dealing with the fact that sleeping is over or shoving his face against the pillow so he’ll shut up.

“Sleep”, is the only thing she mumbles, trying not to shiver as he keeps on biting her.

He sighs and then stays still and Arya thinks she has won; maybe he’ll go back to sleep and they’ll get up much, much later.

But, no, he talks again. “We have to get up.”

“Liar.” Jon  _is_  lying.  _He_  has to get up because he has a boring meeting Arya had no interest in. Arya, instead, can keep on sleeping till at least mid morning. The perks of being a queen instead of a king.

He sighs again. “Well, I have to get up.”

She makes a sound that oscillates between a groan and a whine, and hugs him tight, her arms going around his chest, one of her legs rising to rest against his hip so he won’t get up. She has engulfed him like the big snakes of Dorne that strangle their prey before eating them and Jon laughs.

“No, stay with me.”

“As much as I want to, my love, I can’t.”

She huffs and lets go of him to roll around, her face now facing the wall, and try to keep on sleeping. Jon doesn’t get up just yet. Right when Arya is about to turn and mockingly ask him about his imperious need to get up, he  _pounces_  on her and is her turn to laugh.

He’s hugging her so tightly she can barely breath and he’s biting her neck again and she just can’t stop laughing as he tries not to laugh as well.

For a second, so brief she’s not sure it truly happened, time stops. Time stops and she thinks about a million things at once. She thinks about Sansa’s description of love, about how she assured it was magical and unique and so beautiful it could bring tears to your eyes. She thinks about a love so strong it leaves you breathless, as breathless as she feels right there in Jon’s arms, laughing so hard her stomach hurts. She thinks about the alleged fireworks and the explosions of an emotion so raw and strong it makes adrenaline pump through your veins like nothing else does.

And, in some way, it’s true. The magic and the beauty. The strength and the breathlessness. The fireworks and the adrenaline. But she also thinks about those moments of love people seldom speak about.

The silence that’s heavy like words. A silence that helps you breath, like fresh oxygen that expand your lungs as wide as they go. The sleepy smile that comes unbidden to your face. That smile that’s relaxed and small and  _honest_. A brief moment that’s hardly memorable, but beautiful all the same. The steady beat of two hearts, no rush, no adrenaline, but a peace so great your mind is numb and all you know is that you love the person that’s with you and you love the relationship you are in.

The comfort and the routine and the everyday life going at a slow pace; without crazy adventures every day, without breathless moments at every turn, without wild urges every night.

Love like life. As steady and calm as wild and adventurous.

And the moment ends and her minds forgets about it as sporadically as it came. She doesn’t dwell on it too long, Arya is not the type of girl that thinks about the nature of love for hours on end, but it’s a truth that settles in her heart to stay there forever.

Because as much as she likes adventure and danger and excitement, she is in love with the peace and the sleepy smile and the calm days.

But, above everything, she is in love with Jon. And she is in love with the fact that it takes her close to three seconds to convince him to stay in bed all morning, though they are doing everything but sleeping.

After all, the wild urges are not only for the night.


End file.
